


It's Probably Nothing

by stonelions



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonelions/pseuds/stonelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief and anxious glimpse into the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4955080/chapters/11377498">Gentle Beasts Both</a> 'verse future. The gang is on vacation in Whistler, and Dorian misses a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Probably Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> A quick tumblr prompt that got away on me: [one missed call](http://stonelionhearts.tumblr.com/post/134733984935/send-me-characters-and-a-letter-and-ill-write) \- thanks [ironbearicade](http://ironbearicade.tumblr.com/) for the request!  
> WARNINGS: health uncertainty and anxiety. ETA: Emetophobes, please proceed with caution! Also, quite a lot of drinking, and brief mentions of alcoholism. Some Hawke/Anders, and Cassandra Josephine as well, in case that bothers anyone.

“Shit, I haven’t checked my phone. Are we going to the right pub?” Dorian paws at all his pockets before remembering his phone is still in his bag. They’re already late; distracted by a snowball fight in a welcoming courtyard like two six year olds. There’s nothing quite like a real winter’s day to trigger that sort of time travel, seeing as they’re no longer pushing middle age but firmly in the thick of it.

Josephine laughs. She’s still dusting bits of ice off her lapels. “Trust me,” she says.

It begins to snow. Small, fairy dust flakes that wisp to the ground. In Whistler village everyone carries on unperturbed, since snow is the expectation and not the exception. For Dorian and Josephine, however, it remains something of a delight, and they take their time strolling through it.

Dorian’s phone has been in his bag since morning, safe and sound while he pretended to know his way around a pair of skis—something he’s been doing for a week, annually, for almost seven years now. On these excursions he and Josephine stick to the simple runs, and half the time their efforts devolve into an absurd, slow motion back and forth taunt to see which one of them will fall on their ass first. Cassandra, however, ascends the alpine slopes to tackle the more difficult runs, ones that Josephine and Dorian are too self-aware—and admittedly, usually too hungover—to take on. Not Cassandra, seeker of thrills. Cullen would be right there alongside her had he not been banned from any strenuous mountain adventures by his doctor, on account of a recent bout of pneumonia he’s only just begun recovering from. He’s had to spend his days at the house with the dog, sulking.

Meeting at the pub, thankfully, is an activity Cullen is permitted to take part in.

Dorian scoops his phone out of the messenger bag, expecting to find several texts from his husband. A complaint that he’s late, and at least one follow up telling him _someone_ drank his beer for him, and to hurry the hell up please and thank you. Instead, he realizes he’s missed a call.

He pauses on the sidewalk, salt and stray snow puddling under his feet.

“What is it?” Josephine asks. She looks very pretty all bundled in her brightly printed scarf and wool coat, cheeks nipped by the cold.  

“I’ll be a moment,” Dorian says. “You go ahead.”

Cullen has called, which isn’t his habit. After nearly a decade of togetherness, Dorian knows that Cullen is a nothing if not a creature of habit. If he simply wanted something from the store, he’d text. If he wanted to check in, he’d text. This is unsettling behaviour. Dorian calls him immediately.

And nobody picks up.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” He silences further mutters as he spots a woman and her two children a little ways away, exiting a shop front. He stalks on toward the pub, thinking Cullen might be there, but only Cassandra, Josephine, Varric, Hawke, and Anders surround the table. No Cullen.

Dorian says hello and excuses himself to huddle in the restroom hallway and make a second attempt. This time, the line picks up.

“Dorian, hey, I was about to try you again.”

“Darling, there you are. Is everything alright?” Ambient voices filter through the speaker, along with the sharp noise of milk being steamed. He must be at a cafe, somewhere. If he called to be rescued from car trouble or something of that ilk, at least he’s been warm all afternoon.

“Uh, well...”

Dorian swallows, fingers pressed to the bob in his throat.

“The clinic called. There’s, um... There was a spot on my last scan. Likely just scar tissue that’s migrated a bit, so no need to panic, but they want me to come back in, just to be safe. There’s supposed to be heavy snow tonight, so I’m on my way to the city now.” He goes silent for a few moments. Then, “I’ve... I’ve brought the dog with me, I hope that’s okay.”

Fear wreaths around Dorian’s neck. It weights his shoulders and slides heavy and cold into his guts. He leans against the wall. “I’ll go get my things and meet you.”

“No no, love, I’m already in Squamish. It’s fine, the appointment’s first thing in the morning and I’ll come back straight afterward. You stay, please. Everyone is there.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll just head out now and—

“There’s no sense in it, Dorian. You being with me won’t change the outcome one way or the other.”

It might as well be a slap to the face for all the comfort it gives him. He wants to say that sense is hardly the point, that he will feel better worrying by Cullen’s side than he will alone in his drafty house in the mountains, but he can’t form the words.

Dorian bites at the inside of his lip: a bid to keep his tears from coming, and an ineffective one. Cullen is right, of course. No matter where Dorian is, it’s either scar tissue or it isn’t. But he doesn’t want to stay. Every impulse from temple to toe is to get in his car, Cullen’s clearly expressed wishes be damned, and give chase. “Cullen...” He can’t speak without his voice cracking.

“I know,” Cullen says softly. “But if you run off, everyone will worry, and it’s... It’s probably nothing, Dorian. I have Titania, she’ll look after me.”

_And who does that leave to look after me?_ Dorian thinks, but he won’t force the issue. Cullen’s occasional withdrawals into anxious solitude are something he still doesn’t like, but has learned to live with. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

They hang up, and he ducks into the gent’s room. It’s empty, thank god, and he snuffles a few tears into his sleeve like a complete boor before he tries to bite back the rest of them. He splashes warm water on his face, noticing once again that the gray at his temples has started eating its way steadily around the sides of his head. All he can do is be thankful his hairline seems to be holding its ground. At least the dim light of the pub bathroom is kind to his crow’s feet, which are getting more plentiful each year.

Best not to dwell on it. On any of it.

When he returns to the table, Josephine scoots sideways and makes a place for him. Cassandra and Varric are already engaged in a heated argument, which, judging by the glint in Varric’s eye, he’s enjoying immensely—bless his antagonizing little heart. His latest book has been selling so well that he’s midway through writing a sequel, and there’s talk of a television miniseries. Cassandra is insistent she has a better ending in mind than he does, which is a thinly veiled effort on her part to root out future spoilers. Varric is far too clever to fall for it.

“Is everything alright?” Josephine asks Dorian softly. He looks up from his untouched glass of whiskey, which he’s done nothing but stare into for the past minute.

“Yes,” he decides. “Yes, everything’s fine.” It has to be. “Cullen’s forgotten something in town so he’s gone to get it, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Ah! Then you should stay with us tonight, at the lodge. We have an extra bed, and there’s a hot tub.”

He can’t help but laugh, considering that for all intents and purposes he’s just been invited to a slumber party. And why not, truly? Why shouldn’t they have a slumber party like a bunch of boozy college kids? Maybe he’ll even throw himself naked into a snowbank before getting in the hot tub. He can think of no good earthly reason not to have as much fun as possible while there’s still fun to be had. He lifts the whiskey in a cheers gesture. “My dear Josephine, that sounds like an excellent idea.”

They clink rims, and he knocks the whole thing back.

 

 

With a whoop, Dorian thrashes his way out of the heap of snow he leapt into in a moment of wild abandon. He bolts for the mercy of the hot tub, where Cassandra and Josephine are already luxuriating. Varric has joined them as well, and Hawke is still rolling in the snow in the yard like a big, exuberant puppy. They’ve all eschewed modesty for familiarity, and are quite naked. It’s relaxed. They’re old friends, the lot of them, and they’ve had a fair bit to drink.

Dorian lowers himself into the steaming water with a hum of relief. He glances out at Hawke’s shadowy form, laughing in the dark. “He’s got quite the constitution, hasn’t he?”

“Well,” says Varric, “what’s that saying? No sense, no feeling?”

A snort from Cassandra.

“Garrett, are you alright out there?” Dorian calls.

Another bark of laughter and the stocky fellow trots back to them and splashes in beside Varric. “Invigorating!” he says. “None of you know what you’re missing. Well, save Dorian, at least he gave it a go. Your balls drop back into the sack yet?” He asks, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked under his snow-flecked beard. Dorian grins at him, trying not to let his gaze linger too long. Hawke’s gotten thicker as the years have passed them by, but if anyone can carry it with grace, it’s Garrett. He’s always been deep-chested, and the extra heft suits him.

Dorian’s type, if he’s honest with himself. Since he’s very drunk, he can scarcely avoid honesty. Best to keep his mouth shut. There are some things even friends shouldn’t know. He leans his head on the hot tub rim and tries not to worry about Cullen. There’s a bottle of vodka within easy reach, but he’s already had more than his appropriate share of it, and it’s time to begin sobering up for the night if he ever wants to sleep. So, he picks up a glass of mineral water and sips it instead, watching snowflakes drift down, illuminated by the porch light.

“Maybe next year we should go someplace warm,” Josephine says, huddling against Cassandra under the water.

Cassandra merely smiles at her, languid and peaceful after her long day on the hills. She presses her nose into Josephine’s bangs. “No. I prefer it this way.”

The two of them have been engaged for years now, nearly as long as Dorian has been married to Cullen, but they seem content to stay unwed. He suspects it has something to do with Josephine preferring to plan and replan a wedding than to actually commit to one limited option and perform the whole ordeal, which he can understand. For the time being, they’re secure in each other without the formalities, and when Josephine eventually does find a flawless venue, an ideal cake, and the exact gown she’s dreamed of, the image of perfection down to the last stitch, he’ll be happy to attend the ceremony.

Later, when snow begins falling hard and in earnest, they retreat indoors. Dorian towels dry in a tiny attic bedroom clearly intended for the use of small children who have been towed along on holiday by dutiful parents. It’s more of a nook than an actual room, and he’s already whacked the side of his head twice on the low angled ceiling, which he’s convinced would’ve happened regardless of his state of inebriation. Somehow, he stumbles into a pair of borrowed pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt without cracking his skull a third time.

Overall, the rented lodge is cozy, if a touch rustic, but Dorian finds himself longing for the guarantee of clean sheets he’d have back at the house. Considering that he’s spent the evening quashing his misgivings and mingled dread with plenty of vodka and several raucous games of poker, which Josephine invariably won, he knows he can’t drive, and he’s better off passing out than trying to muddle his way home. Cullen’s house is not easy to find at night, and doubly challenging in the snow; no cabbie would appreciate such a fare at this hour.

Nestled in the dubious blankets of the lumpy single bed, he discovers he’s still too drunk to sleep. Annoying, this whole getting old business. Vodka always did make everything spin, but he didn’t used to feel like he was trapped on a ride at the fairgrounds hours after finishing his last drink.

He sits up and fumbles for his phone in the dark, knocks it to the floor, curses, and collects it. His intention is to play a game, but he’s seized immediately by a horrible, irresistible idea.

It’s well into the wee hours of the night, but he knows Cullen isn’t likely to be sleeping either. With one clumsy tap, he makes the call.

It rings once, twice, a third time. Four. There’s fumbling as the speaker rustles against something.

“...Dorian?”

He sounds groggy. Maybe he was asleep. Shit. “Did I wake you?”

There’s a grunt, followed by a long inhale. “A little bit.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t sleep. Not a wink.”

More sighing. “I’m...sorry to hear that.”

“I’m very angry with you, you know,” Dorian says. “Very angry, and I don’t think you’re being fair.”

Silence on the other end of the line. “I... Okay. Do we have to do this right now? At three o’clock in the morning?” Cullen asks.

“Yes. That’s how angry I am.”

“I...see.”

“Good. Good, I’m glad you see.”

“Dorian, you’ve been drinking, I don’t think—

“Yes I’ve been drinking, but that doesn’t fucking mean I’m not serious!” Dorian snarls. “Every time you get upset or frightened you suck into this void like some—some _sea creature_ drawing into its shell, and you treat me like I’m a shorebird trying to peck you open!”

“I don’t intend to be a...a sea creature. I’m sorry.”

“Regardless of what you intend, you’re not the only one who’s frightened. Maybe you don’t need me when you’re feeling this way, but have you ever thought for one second that I might need you?”

Silence.

“Cullen, I try, god knows I try, to give you space when you ask for it, and I know how selfish this sounds but so help me I can’t always be the one who compromises.”

More empty air on the line. They’ve had this argument before, and several permutations of it besides, but no matter how many times it devolves into a confrontation the resolution never keeps. “This...isn’t a good conversation to have over the phone,” Cullen finally says.

“Oh lovely, thank you. Just dismiss me out of hand, perfect.”

“No! No, Dorian, it’s... I only mean you’re very upset, and I’m sorry, I...” More rustling. A lightswitch clicking on. “If you like, I’ll come and get you? I’m sure the highway is quiet, it wouldn’t be too bad a trip.”

Dorian swallows, feeling ill all in a moment. He glances through the tiny window above the head of his bed, where thick snow is cascading down out of the night sky. “Darling, we’re in the midst of a blizzard up here.”

“I just bought those new winter tires,” Cullen says. “And we can be back in time for me to get to my appointment. I can—

“No, don’t you dare. I’m... Thank you, truly, but it’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll be careful.”

He’ll do it, Dorian knows. He’ll climb into his car at three o’clock in the morning in the pitch dark and drive a frozen highway for two hours, then turn around and do it again the other way, all without a single word of complaint. All for Dorian. Suddenly, the nausea pushes harder in his gut. “You should get back to sleep,” he whispers. “You have an early start.”

The line is silent again. Cullen draws in a big breath. “I am sorry,” he says. “I only thought it would be simpler this way, for both of us. I’m not good company when I’m anxious and I didn’t want you to miss out on the festivities, whatever they may have been.”

“I flung myself bare-assed into a snowbank and then pouted in the hot tub,” Dorian says.

A soft snort from Cullen. “I’m disappointed I missed that, but...I’m glad you’ve told me how you feel.”

Dorian needs to throw up. Not uncontrollably, he’s no danger to the carpeting, but it’s reached a point where he recognizes it’s a bodily function that needs seeing to. “You might consider staying home tomorrow as well, if the roads aren’t clear,” he admits in a soft voice.

“I’ll see in the morning,” Cullen says. “I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, love. Please, don’t worry.”

“I’m trying. Goodnight.”

They hang up, and Dorian composes himself to pad quietly to the closest bathroom. He kneels on a towel and vomits into the toilet bowl, the motion altogether too practiced after a lifetime of depending on alcohol to dull the less bearable forms of unpleasantness visited upon him by the universe. He waits five minutes, to see if he needs a second purge to empty himself, but it’s unnecessary; he feels much better already. It’s downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water then, and an aspirin. He makes himself a piece of toast afterward to suck up any lingering poison and sits in an ugly overstuffed chair that faces the deck. Snow flutters down, soft and near silent.

The nausea subsides, but his chest stays tight. He hopes that Cullen has gone back to sleep.

 

 

Every single one of them exhibits the effects of their drinking the following morning. None of them manage to sleep much past ten o’clock—another curse of aging—and they convene to glower together in the kitchen. Cassandra is surly, and Josephine is doubly invested in sipping her cup of tea. Garrett leans face-first into Anders’ back near the stove, groaning. Anders, wise fellow, retired early the evening prior due to a nascent cold, and today he’s the most chipper of their whole bunch. He’s still thin as a rail and sleepy-eyed, but he’s been doing well after a rough patch about a year ago. Recently he’s gone back to practicing veterinary medicine three days a week.  

They make hashbrowns and eggs, and although Dorian slept little in the end, the meal fortifies him. He accompanies Varric into the village on foot, their pace slow and measured to counteract the hangover jitters.

“Looks like Curly might be stuck in town for the foreseeable future,” Varric remarks, staring up at the snow still falling around them. There’s been nearly a foot of the stuff in the night, with no sign of stopping.

“He may well be.” Dorian takes his phone from his pocket, but there’s nothing yet. Cullen must still be at his appointment. There’s a certain amount of preparation and waiting involved for scans. Sometimes they provide you with a snack to pass the time, but mostly it involves sitting quietly. Cullen hates it.

“So, this thing he forgot. It’s not so much an object as an obligation, is it,” Varric says, hands in pockets. “Is he okay?”  

Varric, bless him, has always been a little too good at reading between the lines. A writer’s intuition, perhaps, or a nose for gossip disguised as such. One needn’t be exclusive from the other. “He’s having a scan. It’s fairly routine,” Dorian replies. A lie, but since Varric is Varric, he already knows that.

“Ahh, those can be rough to reschedule.” His hooded eyes are kind. “I only ask because we worry about him, and I know how he can be. A living, breathing personification of that Monty Python bit with the knight.”

Dorian barks a laugh. “‘Tis but a scratch!” He shakes his head. “Yes, that’s about right. He put a nail clean through his calf once on a job site, before I met him. Hawke says he insisted on driving himself to the hospital.”

A quick whistle from Varric. “I remember that. When it comes to Curly, stoic is an understatement.”

They carry on to the shops, where Varric hunts for a belated gift to send to a friend down south, and Dorian peruses a rack of overpriced scarves. He hasn’t treated himself lately, so he selects one of smooth, turquoise cashmere. He’s about to turn and go to the register when he spots a similar one, in a subtle brick red plaid. With a sigh, he lays hands on it and takes them both up to the cashier. It’s an extravagance, but he’s on holiday, and somehow it feels like being proactive. It isn’t, and he knows that, but he’ll take the temporary false relief over a day of pointless agonizing.

Bags in hand, they make their way back to the lodge. Josephine is bundled in throws and watching a movie, Cassandra—speaking of stoicism—has apparently hauled herself up by the bootstraps and stomped off to the ski hills, and Hawke and Anders have gone back to bed. Varric retires to the ugly overstuffed chair with a notebook, and Dorian decides he’d best make his way home before night comes.

It takes him nearly half an hour to unearth his car from beneath the heap of fresh snow that’s buried it since yesterday afternoon. Sweaty and nauseated by the exertion on account of his hangover, he finally climbs into the driver’s seat with a choice selection of curses, and creeps his way along the frozen roads to Cullen’s house.

He still can’t bring himself to lay any kind of claim to the A-frame cabin in the midst of the forest. They’ve been married six years and unlike the apartment, which has steadily and inexorably become both of theirs, the house remains first and foremost Cullen’s home. Dorian doesn’t mind. At the apartment, Cullen is spartan, isn’t picky about furniture, and contents himself with one or two favorite mugs and a small parcel of closet real estate, which he keeps well stocked with flannels for Dorian to steal.

They’ve discussed selling the house, maybe buying a place jointly, something a little bigger, but they always circle around to the fact that they’re happy where they are. Occasionally it leaves them split between two distant points, but that’s how it’s been from the beginning, and if one or the other of them needs space there’s plenty of it in Pemberton. Like any couple, they’ve had a few fights where the option of temporary distance has been a godsend.

He showers, scrounges a change of clothes. Half of what he ends up wearing is Cullen’s, which is how it often goes come winter time. Dressed, Dorian stands by the back porch doors, hugging himself to counter the chill radiating off the panes. The house always feels far too empty without his husband in it; stark absence that Dorian tries not to consider in any depth. Today, he lacks the intestinal fortitude to even graze up against the notion, or what it might someday mean. On the other side of the glass, the yard is a dusk blue wonderland, and he has a pang of missing the dog. She loves snow and tends to get quite lively in it, despite her advancing years. The thought is wistful, but she’s in good health and Dorian has faith she’ll see a ripe old age.

Eager for distraction, he selects a cookbook from the shelves, chooses a recipe, and makes dinner; enough for two, which is optimistic given Cullen’s day long radio silence. He’s turned up hungry without warning before, though, and should that be the case, Dorian doesn’t want him defaulting to one of his classic non-meals: a gigantic bowl of cereal, or two frozen waffles with peanut butter. That sort of thing reminds Dorian far too much of being twenty, waking up in strange college apartments with one roommate more than there were rooms, a drunk girl fast asleep on the sofa, and a month’s worth of greasy, calcifying pizza boxes fortressed in a corner. In short, he won’t allow it.

He’s packing up the leftovers when his phone buzzes on the table. Cullen, at last.

“There you are,” he says.

“Hey, Dorian.” There’s a pinched note in his tone, and Dorian’s heart sinks. “I meant to call you much sooner but the day got away on me. I wasn’t finished at the clinic until after one o’clock, and then...” A sigh.

He won’t be coming, then. Dorian tucks the leftovers into the fridge. “It’s all right. How did it go? The appointment.”

“It went, I suppose. Should have the results next week at the latest.”

Of course the waiting doesn’t end when you leave the waiting room, or even when you walk out of the clinic afterward. It drags on, since an individual is only one infinitesimal speck of salt in the medical system sea. Everyone is waiting. “They didn’t say anything?”

“Legally speaking, I don’t think they can. The doctor has to read the results. How are you doing?”

“I miss my dog,” he says. “I can’t forgive you for depriving me of her and leaving me here all alone.”

“We tried to head back this afternoon, but everything came to a dead stop outside Squamish—a bad accident, I gather. Waited two hours for them to clear the road, but there was no end in sight, so...we went home.”

“Oh. Well, it snowed all night and most of today, I can’t imagine the conditions were very agreeable. Probably for the best you turned around. You’re safe now, though?”

“Ah, yes, we’re fine. Not sure about whoever caused the pile up. That stretch of highway, I swear to you, people are such fools. Speeding madly, even in this weather. Ridiculous.”

The observation puts a tiny quirk in the corner of Dorian’s lips. It stays there even as a stray sniffle overwhelms him. “I wish you’d taken me with you,” he says softly.

Cullen makes a little noise on the other end of the line. “Dorian...” It’s practically a whisper. “Please, love, don’t cry.”

“I’ll cry if I damn well feel like it,” Dorian says. He reaches for a tissue to blot at his dripping nose.

“First thing tomorrow, we’ll head up. Won’t we, Nia?”

Dorian hears a small ‘boof’ in response from the dog, and he laughs in spite of himself.

“Just...build yourself a fire and make some cocoa. I’ve some of those little marshmallows, above the stove,” Cullen suggests. “Curl up and read that book I gave you for Christmas, or... I don’t know, bake some cookies or something.”

A tear drips down Dorian’s cheek, and he wipes at the sticky line of it. “Cookies, hm? Is that a thinly veiled request?”

Cullen chuckles. “It may be. What about those little round ones with the icing sugar?”

Shortbread. Cullen does love shortbread. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Call me later, if you like.”

“All right.”

They say their goodbyes, their I-love-yous. Dorian takes a deep breath and scours at his eyes, determined to stop crying.

Then, he cracks open a bottle of expensive red wine, puts on music, and throws himself fully into his kitchen endeavors. In his experience, a double batch of cookies is best baked while belting along with a variety of ballads.

Once the cookies are cooled and the last drop of wine is gone, he finds his sleepless night catching up with him in a hurry. He readies for bed, completing his evening rituals by putting on his husband’s pyjamas and nestling into his side of the mattress. His mind dims into partial consciousness and for a few minutes he fears he won’t sleep, but shortly thereafter he slides out of the world.

 

 

He wakes early, cold and uneasy. A bit sick, too. He should never have finished that whole bottle of wine.

Lonesome, too anxious to settle and eat breakfast by himself, he decides he’d rather pass the time elsewhere. He heads for a bakery just south of town, and he’s seated there next to the window with a coffee and a chocolate croissant a half hour later. It’s been some months since he’s been this hungover, two days in a row no less, and he’d almost forgotten the watery, jittery nausea that inevitably plagues him following a bender. The shakes mingle with his disappointment over Cullen’s absence, and he isn’t sure where the hangover ends and his anxiety begins. He’s in the midst of savoring a long sip of his latte in the hopes it will help him ignore the headache thudding at his temples when Cullen calls him.

“Good morning,” Dorian says.

“Morning, love.”

“Are you two on your way?”

“Well, that’s...why I’ve called. I um, I’ve been checking the road conditions and it doesn’t look good,” Cullen says quietly.

Dorian closes his eyes. Somehow, it’s what he expected, though it still upsets him to hear it. “Probably wise not to try it, then,” he agrees. Another light sprinkling of snow has already begun falling.

“You’re not at home? I hear talking.”

“Ah, no, I’m out. Feeling quite sorry for myself, actually. I needed a pastry.”

“I’ve driven you to pastry. I’m sorry, love.”

“Mostly the excessive amounts of wine last night have driven me to pastry, but you are what drove me to the wine.”

“I’ll own that. You look to be enjoying it, at least. The pastry.”

“I look...what?” No reply. The line blips, as though it’s gone dead. Dorian tilts his head in confusion, brows furrowed, and he’s licking a flake of croissant from his thumb when he feels a hand touch his back. He glances up into his husband’s grinning face.  

“Hey,” Cullen says.

Dorian squeaks a small noise of surprise. He stands up and wraps his arms around Cullen, who smells like snow and wet leather and is looking downright chuffed with his own mischief. “You absolute cad! Were you standing outside this whole time?” Cullen merely smiles and reaches to steal a bite of croissant, which Dorian swats him away from, before pulling him in for a quick kiss. “You sit, I’ll get you your own. Coffee?”

Cullen rolls his shoulders, slipping out of his jacket as he gives a nod. “Please.”

A minute later, fresh latte and an apple turnover in hand, Dorian returns to the table. “So, you were in the mood for a big misdirect, were you?”

“We were going to surprise you at the house, but I stopped to get a coffee and lo and behold, who should I see sitting by the window...”

Dorian laughs. “So you decided to make a fool of me?” He grabs Cullen’s thigh under the table and squeezes. “Ass.”

“Well worth it for the look on your face.”

“And where is my dog?”

“In the car, of course. She’ll be happy to see you. I think she was as upset as you were that I’d taken her.” Cullen sips the coffee, and his brows knit. “Is this whole milk?”

“Yes. You’ve been sick, you need to get your strength up.”

“Maybe, but I need to do it without adding to those ten pounds I gained over Christmas,” he grumbles.

“Oh shush, I’m very fond of your winter belly. Your sweaters look better on you this way.” Dorian nudges the turnover an inch closer to Cullen, who snorts and breaks a piece off to toss in his mouth. In all their time together, excluding the first few months for obvious reasons, Cullen has rarely met a pastry he didn’t like. The result is that he’s soft in the middle throughout the year and especially round over the holidays, and Dorian loves him for it.

“Are you still angry with me?” Cullen asks after he finishes chewing.

Dorian waves it off. “I’ve aired my grievance. We’ll leave it there for now.”

“Hm. In that case, it might please you to know that I’m... I’m fine. Scan came back clean.”

The world doesn’t still around them. People chatter, orders are placed, and baristas make coffee, everyone carrying on oblivious to the departure of a shadow from the room. Dorian blinks his eyes against the tears of relief burning there. He leans forward and gestures for Cullen to move closer before curling his fingers around the back of his neck and grappling him into a tight hug. Too tight for public consumption, but he’s beyond caring. After a few long moments, Cullen thumps him on the shoulder and gives him a rough, earnest kiss on the side of his mouth. They pull apart and Dorian wipes at his eyes. He manages a laugh.  

“Thank god,” he says. His hands are shaking, so he leaves one on Cullen’s leg, at the knee, to feel the warmth of him. “How did you find out so quickly?”

“Lucky break. My doctor happened to be in this morning to check the results the lab sent over. They called me about an hour ago.” He smiles one of his little private smiles and gives a nod of affirmation. “Scar tissue, like they thought. Probably stirred up by the pneumonia—all that coughing,” he says.

“That’s... I’m so glad.” A hollow simplification for the hammering thrum of love under Dorian’s ribs. The wrinkle in Cullen’s brow suggests he understands. He strokes a thumb over Dorian’s stubble; a quick, smooth gesture, intimate in its brevity.

“I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I started thinking last night maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but—”

The glare Dorian levels him with must be curdling, since Cullen raises a hand in surrender.

“But,” he repeats, “I know how important it is to you that I’m honest about my health.”  

Dorian blinks a few times, huffs against the slow build of tears that won’t stop budding at the corners of his eyes. He reaches out and picks a stray bit of fluff from Cullen’s shirt, on the chest. A combination of Titania hair and lint, a common annoyance in their household. Then, he knits his fingers with Cullen’s. “Thank you,” he says, “for telling me.”

They sit for a time, hands entangled and resting on Cullen’s knee. Eventually, the last of the pastry crumbs are dabbed up, and the coffee cups emptied, and a twenty-something woman hovers near their table, ready to pounce and claim it the instant they move to depart.

“Shall we?” Cullen asks.

“Yes, I think so.”

Dorian follows Cullen to his car to say hello to Titania, who squirms and wags and stamps about in the backseat, unable to properly leap at Dorian to greet him without whacking her head on the roof. When he opens the door she smacks him in the chest with a paw and licks his ears when he leans down to soothe her.

“Oh, wonderful,” he says, cringing. “I’m sure I needed that.”

“Maybe it was her that needed it,” Cullen says, that crooked smile of his bordering on cheeky.  

Dorian grabs hold of him and pulls him into another hug; too tight, too sincere for the snowy parking lot. Altogether unnecessary, considering they’ll be out of eyeshot of every stranger for miles once they arrive to the house. Cullen reciprocates, fingers sweeping into Dorian’s hair at his nape.

Titania barks at them for ignoring her, and they both laugh.

“You want to take her in your car?” Cullen asks.

“Mm...” Dorian shakes his head. “No, she’s fine with you. She’ll just leave wet footprints all over my seats.”

“Then I’ll see you at home in a few minutes,” Cullen murmurs to him.

“Of course.” He repositions his arms, slides them higher under Cullen’s unzipped coat to give him a final squeeze. He’s warm. Healthy, solid, and breathing; his belly presses against Dorian’s own on every inhalation. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Twenty minutes later, safely returned to the house, Dorian loops the new red scarf about Cullen’s neck.

“What’s this for?” he asks, smoothing a hand over it.

“Just because,” Dorian replies. He leans for a kiss, and Cullen indulges him, managing to mutter a thank you in the midst of it.

“Oh,” Cullen pauses, “we should light a fire.”

“Five more minutes,” Dorian says, leaning for another kiss.

“In five minutes,” Cullen says, nosing a sideburn, “you’ll be complaining to me that you’re cold.”

Dorian’s hands move down, gripping the backs of Cullen’s thick thighs. “There are plenty of other ways to keep me warm, you know. It may surprise you to learn that many of them involve nudity.”

A hot, breathy chuckle next to his neck. “Is that so?” Cullen begins walking them toward the staircase.

“It is. Hard to believe, maybe, but true. I’ll have to show you.”

Cullen rubs their beards together, the bristles catching and scratching in the way that makes Dorian hum for the pleasure of it. “Lead the way,” Cullen says.

So Dorian does.


End file.
